Intimate Portraits
by bitchy brunette
Summary: A series on the character's reflections. They don't really go in any order. so if you're more interested in on character than another, just skim it.
1. Dawn

Title: Of Wishing Wells and Daydreams  
Summary: Someone has a little growing up to do.  
Archive: Want it?  
Disclaimer: Not mine.  
Comments: I know, I know, Dawn/Spike hints, eew! But I just thought it might be interesting.   
The girl is like, 15. That's how old Buffy was, so it's not so bad.   
Feedback: kimmie@quincymail.com  
  
  
  
  
I thought I'd always have someone around to lean on, someone to take care of me. Big   
surprise- turns out I was wrong all along. I guess I was really shaken about Mom's death. No one   
I'd ever known had actually died, although it is pretty frequent around here. I just never thought   
it would hit so close to home, and with something as serious as cancer. I was mad at first, mad   
at Buffy, mad at the Gang, and mad at myself. It wasn't fair that I had only been with her for a   
year, and that everyone else had known her for so long. I was her child, or so I thought, and I   
hardly knew her. Being loved is a nice feeling, it makes you feel needed and safe. When Mom   
died, I had nothing left. I'd never really been close to Buffy, and it was hard to tell her how I felt.   
Suddenly I was floating in a world where no one cared, and nothing mattered. I didn't   
want to think, feel, move, speak, and do anything ever again. As awful as it sounds, it wasn't all   
about Mom leaving. It was about my safety, my feelings, and me. Looking back, it sounds like   
I'm a spoiled little princess, but in truth, I was just eager to feel like I belonged somewhere.   
Without Mom, I didn't think I'd ever belong again. I felt so good when I finally connected with   
Buffy. She's my sister, and I've always loved her, I've just never really known her, not since we   
were younger.   
I'm not even really normal, and finding that out hurts. I've always dreamed about what it   
would be like if I was the slayer, and if everyone's life revolved around mine, but I never pictured   
I'd be something so helplessly useless. I only bring pain, and if I could, I'd like to change things.   
I wouldn't want to be a fake human, something made from an object or a spell of some type. It   
isn't fair what they did to me, what they did to my family. The hurt that comes with finding a   
secret like this is terrible, and even worse when people start dying and getting hurt because a   
crazy goddess is out to get you. Giles was hurt, Willow was hurt, and Spike and Buffy were hurt.   
If it weren't for me, none of this would be happening. No one can imagine how I feel, having to   
be protected and coddled all the time. If I so much as go for a walk, someone has to come with   
me, and it has to be a short distance from home, and Buffy has to be in rage of sight. I'm not   
blaming anyone, because it is my fault, but I just would prefer to be taught some things to   
defend myself. Maybe people would stop being hurt if I could protect myself.   
In this past year, I've seen so much, done even more, and just been a part of something   
amazingly frightening. This is coming from the girl who is always sheltered. Think of what it must   
be like for Buffy, risking her life for people who will never know her name, never know she   
existed. I'd like to get her some recognition, scream out her accomplishments from the top of a   
mountain. It makes me want to cry, thinking how she's going to die way too young, in a grizzly,   
painful way to save humankind, who'll sit at home in their living rooms eating popcorn; watching   
TV and never knowing her. I've also met a lot of great people: all the Scoobies, the LA gang,   
Spike. I don't know what it is about him, but something in that dark exterior and lighter inside   
makes me want to know him better.   
I know, I know, it seems kind of weird that I feel this way, but Buffy was my age when   
she started dating Angel, so I don't see the problem. Of course, Buffy would have a problem, and   
Giles and the others, well, except Tara, would have a problem, but that wouldn't matter, because   
love overcomes everything. I don't think I could change him, and in truth I don't really want to. I   
like that he plays the bad boy, even though he tries to be good. People don't give him enough   
credit. He, also, seems to be obsessed with my gorgeous sister, and even if he weren't, he'd   
never even think of looking at me twice. I'm not skinny enough, I don't have blonde hair, and my   
looks are passable, but not enough to attract him. I have to face it, one, I'm only a danger to   
him, two, Buffy would kill him if he ever even thought about me in a way more than friendly, and   
three, I'm just not mature enough.   
Part of growing up is getting mature, which basically means facing facts. I'm facing   
them, as painful as they may be. It's hard being an adult, but sometimes, it's even harder just   
being me. Dawn Summers is not a person. She wasn't born and she didn't grow. I just appeared   
as I am now, and I'll age normally from now on. I was created. Sounds like something out of a   
warped sci-fi novel, but it's the complete truth. That's the scary thing.   
I have these memories that didn't really happen. In one of them, I'm just about 5 years   
old, I was with Buffy and my mom in some park or reserve somewhere, and there was a little   
well, full of pennies shining up at me from the bottom. I was a little scared of the depth, the   
musty smell of mildew along the slimy sides, but my mother told us that it was a wishing well,   
something to throw a coin and wish on. We could wish for anything, she said, and it would come   
true, because magic is important to believe in when you're small. Well, Buffy and I threw in coins   
one at a time, taking turns with out wishes. I wished to be a princess and live in a big castle with   
a handsome prince, just like in the fairytales. Travelling along the path I'm on has made me   
realize that there are no wishing wells, no fairytales. Life is just one hard bump after another,   
and I've come to terms with a lot of my past bumps, and realized that there are many more   
coming up. That is what growing up and becoming mature is all about. That is what it means to   
be an adult, to realize that your prince is never going to come, your fifteen minutes of fame will   
never come, you'll never be known, and you just have to live with those as fact. Reading this   
over, I also realize that I've got a lot more growing up to do.  



	2. Spike

Title: Bloody Daisies  
Summary: Spike is remembering.   
Archive: Ff.net, ask = give  
Disclaimer: Not mine.  
Comments: kimmie@quincymail.com  
  
  
  
  
Of all the things I miss most about being evil, it would be the blood. It seems rather   
obvious, missing human blood, but I don't mean it in the sense of just drinking it. I mean I miss   
the feeling of it pulsing behind skin, jumping with fright at every heartbeat. I miss the feel of it   
on my skin, the stickiness of it drying over my hands, running between my fingers. I miss the   
smell of a fresh kill, the excitement of seeing the first gush of blood.   
Once, when our lovely sire had abandoned Dru and me, we made a kill in a small   
countryside. It was a little cottage, a family of maybe five. The kills were slow; we broke a few   
necks, while the others were left unconscious. Dru insisted that we eat by moonlight, so I had to   
drag the damn bodies all the way out into a field. Dru loved the field, and it was covered in   
flowers. Daisies, she told me, a smile lighting up her face. They were beautiful daisies. The most   
vivid part of that memory is the grass stained red, the small flowers streaked in blood.   
I do miss eating from a warm body, though. I miss the screams of pain, the tears   
begging my mercy. The mercy I never granted them. I know I'm not changing, I just have   
rusted. I want this bloody piece of sodden machine out of my brain now. I can't wait any longer.  
Things break me, piece by piece. Seeing the pain the Slayer's sister is in actually makes   
me pity her. I haven't felt pity in more than a century. It's a disgusting feeling, a feeling that   
makes me want to comfort her, be there for her. It sickens me when I think on it too long. The   
only people who really make me feel anything aside from hate are Red and little Pet. Red is so   
open, so innocent. I can't think about what would happen were she exposed to the real evils in   
this world. She'd make a lovely vampire. Maybe, when I find a way to get this chip out, after I've   
gutted every Initiative member in Sunnydale, I'll turn them. And run, because I don't want to find   
myself on the wrong end of a stake.   
At any rate, I'm getting soft, just as Dru said. But she's wrong. Maybe the girl really has   
lost any grip of reality she might've had before, because I can go back. I'll be as evil and ruthless   
as I was before, in fact, I'll be worse. I'll help that bloody law firm roast Poof, and take Pet and   
Red to Europe. We'll have fun, and I can make new memories of blood on flowers.   
  



	3. Angel

Title: Memories and Alcohol  
Summary: Angel does some ranting…  
Archive: Want it?  
Disclaimer: Not mine.  
Comments: Have some? Send em to me! kimmie@quincymail.com  
  
  
  
  
I tipped the bottle back up to my mouth, draining it of the last few drops of liquid. Angry   
at the state of emptiness, I throw it against the wall, enjoying the tinkle of glass on glass as the   
bottle slams against the wall and into the pile of broken bottles I've drank myself into a stupor   
with. the sound is brief, too brief, and once again I'm dropped into silence. I hate the times like   
this, where I'm alone in the dark, with no one to talk to, no one who understands. I lost that all a   
long time ago, and now, all I have are memories. Memories of killing my family, innocent people,   
hunting Drusilla and finally, the struggle with good when I was cursed. I remember the screams,   
the flow of blood, the crunch of bones as my victims struggled. The sound, the sights, the taste   
of blood, thinking about it makes me sick, so I try not to think. Vodka helps, scotch, bourbon,   
anything helps. Tonight, I've had some of each. A lot of each. Drowning my sorrows in alcohol   
has been something I've done since I was alive. When I first left Sunnydale, I drank more than I   
can ever remember doing, life and no. Now, I just do it to keep the memories of the times, both   
good and bad from coming back. Good memories, of light, of life, of my Buffy. Those sometimes,   
can be the worst. Thinking about her, how beautiful and perfect she is makes me want to die.   
Knowing that I hurt her, when all I want to do is protect her from harm makes me want to   
forget. Even if it means forgetting her for a while and doing something she'd be disgusted by.   
Here I am, a pathetic excuse for anything, man or demon, the strange cross I am   
between the two, getting drunk and whining about all the things I remember. the only good   
thing about not having a conscience is not worrying. You never remember the things you've done   
with anything but a smile on your face, because you aren't worried of getting caught, and you   
don't regard the victims as something important. It just doesn't matter, like killing a deer or a   
rabbit doesn't matter to many people, killing people didn't matter to me. Now, every scream I   
caused, every ounce of pain I gave comes back one thousand times stronger, blocking out all   
sounds but the cries, making me feel only a heart-rending pain.   
I deserve this, though, I want to feel the pain, I need to hear the screams, they keep me   
grounded, make me realize that I am never going to get a second chance, because I don't   
deserve it, not after the things I've done.   
Thinking about things hurts. Sometimes when the memories take over, I think about   
Buffy on purpose, picturing everything, remembering everything, from the first meeting to the   
last time we spoke, after her mother's death. She was so vulnerable then, so afraid. Its rare to   
see Buffy either of those things, and to remember her pain, and my contentment at just being   
able to hold her, to comfort her, and be there, it's too much to think on it and not be able to do it   
again. I use those memories against myself, as a reminder of what I can never have.  
I'm thinking too much, now, the alcohol is beginning to wear of. I can tell because when   
I'm dead drunk, I can't think about one thing for too long, and I've been centered on Buffy for a   
while now, and two, because I'm starting to see things clearly. I want the haze back, the   
uncertainty, and the blackness. I stumble only slightly on my way to the kitchen. Clutching the   
bottle of Jack Daniel's to my chest, I retreat to the couch, where I begin to gulp the liquid. For a   
few more hours, I will be able to forget.   



	4. Buffy

Title: Stuffed Pig Fronts  
Summary: Buffy's not who they think she is…  
Archive: FF.net; Anyone who wants it can take it, keep my name on it.   
Disclaimer: Not mine.  
Comments: Sort-of runs along with my other two, "Of Wishing Wells and Daydreams" and   
"Memories and Alcohol", but they don't need to be read to understand this one. Is it just me, or   
can you guys not wait for next week's (5/22) season finale? Yay! Angel is going to be back!   
Feedback: kimmie@quincymail.com  
  
  
  
  
Things about me, a lot of them would make the Gang disown me. It's not that I'm dirty,   
really, in the sense of the word, I'm just wrong, and marred. The things they see about me can   
be summed up in a toy. My pig represents a part of me, something whole and untainted. That   
part is gone, fading and worn like the pig itself, but somehow, they don't see. They don't notice,   
and I have to pretend. I cover the holes and patches, ripping seams and missing parts, but I   
can't fake whole forever, and sooner or later, I'll just come unraveled, leaving the real Buffy, the   
true me behind to fester under the sun, hated by everything.   
It's not something I'm really ashamed of, this violent, dark inside of mine. It's the   
consequences of being found out that alarm me. I can't imagine not being able to look at my   
friends and see the love and respect, I suppose they have for me, the same way I feel about   
them. It would hurt to see Xander turn away from me, feel the burn of Giles's hate. What would   
Willow say? Would Dawn hate me even more? The thought of all that hate, the feelings and   
bonds just crumble, it scares me more than dying, more than the fires of hell.   
Some people know, I think. Angel. Angel's always known everything about me, even with   
out me telling him. I'm sure it's partially from the way he's always looking at me, and his   
tendency to stalk me, but it's just like him to pick up on things you'd never want anyone to know.   
And then, still love you for it. Dracula also knew, but it was something he saw and used against   
me, just for the fun of seeing me crack. For a moment, I did. I bent under that admission   
because it seemed like he was the first to see it, and not be scared. Angel wasn't exactly scared,   
but he did leave. Its still hurts me, as dark as I may be, to think about that. I loved him so much,   
more than anything I can say, more than any words that exist can express. There isn't a way to   
explain what I felt. After everything, all I'd given, after how strongly we felt, he still could bring   
himself to walk away, even thinking it was wrong, I just didn't think it was possible. A good part   
of me died then, taking more of my pig image away. I'm not trying to blame Angel, because he's   
still so important to me, and I still love him, despite the past, because that part would've gone   
with or without him, eventually. I wonder, though, will he still love me when I'm totally gone?   
Who is me, and which part, if any, is more the real Buffy?   
The scary thing is I'm losing sense, of which is which. I can't tell you which I have more   
of, or which is more like the Buffy I used to be, because it all is so muddled, so blurred. I don't   
think I'll ever know, but that isn't important anymore. What's important is hiding what's under   
the pig, keeping it from my friends as long as possible. I don't know what I'll do when they see   
me, and I don't want to think of it. Maybe if I ignore it, it will just go away.   



End file.
